Stupid Beowulf
by Elyan White
Summary: Wherein a bunch of frat boys who are very insecure about their sexualities break a guy's arm and get sued by his mom. Or maybe that's just Beowulf.


**My love to the Seamus Heaney translation and to Seamus Heaney himself. Neither of them deserved this.**

* * *

Basically, someone at Jutes University was being a dick.

 _Colorfully_ being a dick-illegible graffiti climbed all over the student dormitories like a posturing baboon, and striped uneven lines along cars in the paid parking. It was impossible for even a single one of the Jutes not to notice.

But not a single one of the Jutes mattered. Because the day the mystery vandal decided to spray-paint the Make-Out Tree was the day that _Hrothgar_ noticed, and incidentally the day that _Beowulf_ noticed. And, as with most things involving Beowulf, the day Beowulf noticed was the day things began to go poorly for both parties.

Beowulf was a proud (some might say _too_ proud, but "some" were not Beowulf) member of the Ecgtheow fraternity, which was known for its spontaneous ability to destroy absolutely everything it encountered. He was a chronic crew-neck-wearer whose upper arms thudded instead of smacked when you hit them. He wore just the right amount of hair gel to make his hair appear constantly buffeted in the wind, while at the same time ensuring no actual wind could stir it. He wore just the right amount of body spray to be mortally afraid of birthday candles. What he lacked in basic intelligence, he made up for impulsive psychoticism, and was by every account of the fraternity a leader among men.

And so, as soon as Hrothmund realized he had spotted the dreaded vandal of Jutes University, and as soon as he realized he and his girlfriend were too shirtless and too afraid of individual confrontation to do anything about it, he did what all men do when in need of guidance: he texted someone about it. In this case, he texted his brother Hrethric. Hrethric in turn considered the list of authorities he could inform and settled sensibly on Beowulf, in the process of being persuaded by his peers to see if he could down a bottle of cinnamon without dying.

"Hrothmund saw the guy, apparently. His girlfriend says his name is Grendel, and he's the one who's been harassing the Jutes."

"The Jutes?" Beowulf frowned the square-jawed frown of the manfully troubled.

"Yeah, you know, the Jutes."

Beowulf still looked troubled.

"Our rival school," Hrethric elaborated. "Don't you remember initiation? You had to wear a blindfold and run into a flagpole with their banner on it until it fell over."

Beowulf did not, in fact, remember initiation. Or actually, he did sort of remember intense head pain and the taste of what might have been ground. It was possible this had something to do with why he didn't remember. Then again, shit-wrecking hangovers were usually Beowulf's order of the day, so it was also possible that it didn't.

"I thought their team was the Giants," he said instead.

"Nah, bro," Hrethric said. "Well, it is, but it's Jutes University, so we just call them the Jutes."

The Giants or Jutes of whatever they saw fit to be called were long-standing enemies of the Beewolves of the University of Gaets, not because of regional competition, but because they were about equal in meat-headedly stubborn qualities. Plus their cheerleaders were about the same level of attractiveness. Hrethric wasn't sure he was obligated to be involved in their affairs, but at the same time it seemed like he must be obligated to do _something_ now that the identity of the vandal was discovered. Like his brother, he decided to let someone else do the deciding.

He looked between his phone screen and Beowulf. "Should we…do something?"

"Hell yeah," said Beowulf, pounding back twenty-five grams of creatine with a Jägerbomb shot and automatically gaining the allegiance of everyone in the room who witnessed it. "Let's make a plan."

Seamus Heaney was the fraternity president for Ecgtheow. He'd been given the position because he threw around dangerous concepts like "having a plan for the future" and "going to sleep, goddammit." Allegedly, his parents were proud of his life decisions. This, like the brother who said he'd enjoyed chess club in high school or the brother whose laptop porn collection featured colorfully animated girls with eye sockets big enough to fit your wrist through, made him very difficult for the others to relate to. He was known for being straightforward, aggressively verbose, and starting every conversation with an uncompromising "so." He was also constantly exasperated. He had a faintly tragic air to him that was especially tangible whenever he tried reasoning with Beowulf.

Like now.

"So. Let me get this straight."

Beowulf nodded, like he'd been told to do when people talked to him.

"You-and all the rest of you idiots-plan to go camp out at _another college campus_ to catch a vandal who may or may not show up."

The rest of the boys nodded, like they'd been told to do when people talked to them.

Seamus could have been less pleased. He also could have been much, much _more_ pleased. "So, even assuming you do catch him, you plan to…what?"

Beowulf looked around for somebody else to supply an answer, while everyone else looked around to Beowulf to supply an answer.

"…Challenge him," Beowulf eventually decided. Seamus couldn't really say anything to that because he was compelled to go take medication for his rapidly worsening headache.

And so Beowulf and the brothers of the Ecgtheow fraternity (but mostly Beowulf) set off to challenge Grendel.

Just on the forested edges of Jutes campus territory they arranged the loudest, least thoughtful stake-out of all time. One might hesitate to call it a "stake-out", as they would have to stop and wonder why that word had come into their head at all. There was a bonfire, a cooler, a table, and a herd of rambunctious males. No one was doing anything in particular to actually watch for the vandal.

Someone tried to fart into the fire, and admitted no injury afterwards. Someone else tried to crumple a beer can against his head, and he didn't admit to injury, either-but that might have been because the beer can was full and he didn't get off the grass. If they were both alright enough to mumble when they were prodded, the others reasoned, then they were probably alright enough not to take to the hospital.

Amidst the chaos, Beowulf shot a text to Hrothgar, one of their senior members staying behind to talk Seamus out of reporting their actions.

 _What's up_ , he sent, certain that his concern and interest came across in the words and lack of punctuation.

 _Seamus says he hates you_ , his phone dinged cheerfully back at him a few moments later. _Any sign of the vandal raising Cain yet?_

Beowulf's brow furrowed as he realized he wasn't sure how to answer that. "Hey," he called to the group. "Was Grendel raised by Cain?"

That was enough to pause the camp altogether.

"What is that, like, denominational?" Hrethric said, unsure he knew what he was talking about but definitely wanting to sound like it.

His brother elbowed him and give him his best superior look. "Yeah, man, it was _Cain_. Like, the guy who didn't keep his brother or whatever."

If there was one thing Hrethric was certain about in life, it was that his brother was always wrong. "What, no, you mean that Noah's ark guy who didn't want to build the ark. Cam. _Cam_ , not Cain."

Hrothmund scoffed, figuring that if he hadn't heard of it, then no one else but Hrethric had either. "Who the hell is Cam, your girlfriend?"

There was manful chuckling for a jibe well-delivered and Hrethric sulked, but before he could become too bitter freshman Wiglaf broke in, switching attention to the only thing he thought was really worth paying attention to: Beowulf.

"Hey, Beowulf," he piped up, startling the de facto leader out of a long, vacant stare at the tree trunks. "Do you have a girlfriend?"

Beowulf, who had never really been interested in anything curvier than the blender he made his protein shakes in, had to think about this. Beowulf, unfortunately, was not the greatest thinker.

"I guess," he said, and before the conversation could go any further, Lady Fortune endeavored to prove she favored no one. A shout went up suddenly from the camp outskirts.

"It's him!"

"'Him'?"

Heads went around and leaf litter was upset as the gathered Gaets jockeyed to catch a glimpse of the baffled-looking, sweater-wearing _him_.

"Who…are you all?" _Him_ asked hesitantly, eyeing them.

Hrothmund jabbed a finger, startling all who were close to him. "Woah, that _is_ him! It's Grendel!"

Hrethric saw a chance to redeem himself. "We're here to challenge you," he said with utmost seriousness.

"Challenge me," Grendel repeated nervously, having flashbacks to the horror-survival game he'd been playing the previous week. "Like in arm-wrestling, or finger-painting, or what?"

Beowulf had not thought that far. But Beowulf understood that it was important to accept help when it was needed, even if someone didn't know they were offering it. "Yes," he said confidently, leaving Grendel very confused as to which option he meant.

Beowulf, however, was immune to the confusion of others, and had bigger plans than justifying his actions. Grendel watched him dubiously, until-

"Oh my God, he's taking his shirt off."

He was.

"Oh my God, now he's taking his pants off."

He was doing that too.

"I'll arm-wrestle you," Beowulf declared. When faced with a naked, well-muscled man and several eager adolescents crowding him towards a wobbling table, Grendel wasn't sure how he could say no. He sat down tentatively onto the least splintery tree trunk, and was both impressed and deeply terrified when Beowulf chose the _most_.

The plastic table was adjusted between them. Beowulf's assertive elbow slammed it down into place. Grendel, still not convinced this was all happening, awkwardly joined his hand into the stranger's large one, knowing as soon as he did that it was a bad decision. His opponent was built like Disney's Hercules, with the huge, broad shoulders, the waspish waist, and the potential for a heroic, winning smile on his face.

"Seriously," Grendel said, eyes darting around again between the members of the captive audience. Or maybe he was the captive here? " _Who are_ -"

Beowulf smashed him into the table, shoulder-first.

"Vaguely Christian Pagan hybrid Jesus, I think a ligament just tore!" Grendel howled, doubling over the tabletop and clutching his arm. The Ecgtheow members erupted into guttural cheering, assured of their champion's prowess. Beowulf, deaf to the world's complaints and used to people screaming things like lawsuits and obscenities around him, stared with interest at the lone varsity sweater sleeve dangling from his hand.

"Huh," he said. "Didn't know you played with the Pagans."

Grendel writhed. "You ripped my arm off!"

Beowulf shrugged. "I guess."

All in all, it had been a good night. You could tell by the criminal amount of litter and the snoring bodies around the remnants of the fire, especially because the remnants of said fire appeared to have spread to some of the surrounding woodland. The morning smelled like roasted squirrel and blind optimism when the Ecgtheow brothers began to rouse.

Grendel had…well, no one was quite sure what had happened to Grendel. He was a grown-ass adult, they reasoned, and had the discretion necessary to judge for himself whether or not he wanted to go to the hospital. Probably after he stopped crying.

It was a jubilant and consequence-oblivious party who returned to their dorm, ignoring any and all classes for the day. Hrothgar and Seamus were waiting for them, but only Hrothgar was happy to see them. Or maybe Seamus expressed happiness by turning chalk-white and adopting a deathly, thousand-yard stare.

"So you're being sued," he informed the grinning band.

"Being what?" Beowulf inquired, still grinning.

"Being _sued_. By Grendel's mother."

Beowulf, Hrethric, and Hrothmund all did their best impressions of frozen computer screens. Wiglaf did his best impression of an acolyte staring in rapture at his god, which everyone did their best not to notice. Seamus couldn't tell if they had forgotten the meaning of the word "sued" or if they had forgotten the name "Grendel", since both were equally possible. Thankfully, Hrothgar saved Seamus from the labyrinth of asshatery that was getting answers out of Beowulf. At least, he thought darkly, for the moment.

"Sued?" Hrothgar said, with a hint of what Seamus dared to call outrage. "For _what_?"

"Well, that depends," Seamus said, making direct eye contact with Beowulf. "What'd you do to Grendel?"

Beowulf thought back. He remembered something vaguely about yelling and a sweater sleeve. "Ripped his arm off," he said decisively.

Seamus Heaney quit his job. Grendel's mother, however, did not quit suing them.

Hrothgar approached Beowulf later in the day, after Seamus's things had all miraculously disappeared and the Ecgtheow boys had already begun to forget he existed. "Hey, Beowulf, it looks like you're president now. The paperwork from Seamus says so."

Beowulf peered at the stack Hrothgar handed him. The paperwork _did_ say so, in no uncertain terms. Interestingly, the paperwork _also_ seemed to say that Beowulf had been president since before the whole Grendel incident had begun, and went to great lengths to emphasize how immensely responsible for everything Beowulf was, and how willing to accept any potential consequences on behalf of Ecgtheow.

Wiglaf appeared from Beowulf's shadow to peer at it, too. "This is bad," he commented. "From an outside perspective, this whole thing almost looks like it was your fault, Beowulf. When Dean Hygelac finds out about this…"

Hrothgar thought it sort of looked like Beowulf's fault from _every_ perspective, but that couldn't be right. "Well, when my mom is angry, it always calms her down when I apologize to her. So if we apologize to Grendel's mom, then everything should turn out okay, right?"

"Right," Wiglaf agreed immediately.

"Right," Beowulf added belatedly, suddenly aware a response was required of him. He gave his brain a moment (more than one, really) to let it catch up to what had been said. "Where does she live?"

"She's actually pretty well-known," Hrothgar said, obviously having looked into this before. He opened his phone to a Wikipedia page with a picture of a tartly smiling woman with wire glasses, tightly-curled hair, and a sweater that had obviously weathered several cats. "She's an Old English teacher at a private college, but Google maps says she lives pretty close around here. I mean, _pretty_ close. Like, definitely close enough to find eventually."

"She is old," Beowulf admitted, only paying half-attention, and to only half of what was being said. "But she doesn't really look English to me. More German, maybe. She has that mean jawline."

"You're completely right," Wiglaf said, paying no attention to what was being said but _all_ of his attention to Beowulf being the one saying it.

They all looked determinedly at the picture some more, until the screen on Hrothgar's phone timed out.

Hrothgar pondered the black screen for a second. "Who's the fastest driver in Ecgtheow?"

Wiglaf and Beowulf debated silently, or Wiglaf pretended they were debating silently and Beowulf wondered why Wiglaf kept looking at him like that.

"Probably Hrethric," Wiglaf offered when he understood Beowulf's input would not be forthcoming. "On account of his suspended driver's license and all."

"Perfect," Hrothgar said.

In the end, Hrethric's car-or, more appropriately, Hrothmund's car-could only fit six people (un)comfortably, so the only brothers who set out to face Grendel's mother were Beowulf, Hrethric, Hrothmund, Hrothgar, some guy named Unferth who still had data available on his phone to use Google maps, and Wiglaf, who had ways of going where Beowulf did (to the same college, for instance).

"Alright," Hrothgar said, navigating from Unferth's phone and ignoring Unferth himself. "Is everyone clear on the plan?"

"Crystal," Hrethric said, spinning the steering wheel like a pizza pie and almost throwing them into a ditch. "We should be there before midnight. Could be earlier, if I find any shortcuts."

Beowulf's head bobbed in affirmation, or maybe just from the turbulence of the tires rolling over a possum. "Don't worry, guys, I'll go it alone once we get to the lake. She'll never see me coming from the water."

"That should give you enough time to get into her house before she can get you out," Hrothmund said with far too much glee.

"Or pick you up in the security cameras," Wiglaf tagged on. He wasn't joking.

Unferth, jammed between the side of the rattling car and Beowulf's rock-solid bulk, gave a short cough. "That's some Leeroy Jenkins shit," he muttered, wondering why he was here and if he would have to participate.

"Don't worry, I've done this before," Beowulf said, mistaking his worry. "My buddy dared me to race him in the water wearing a parka once so I said yeah."

There were nods around the car. "Of course you did."

"And then I almost got eaten by a 'gator, but it was cool because I had the swiss army knife on my keychain-that parka was dense, man. Nine of them died and I didn't even bleed that bad."

"Cool," said Hrethric. And then, with no warning, "I found a shortcut."

Beowulf and the rest all squinted out into the darkness, trying to discern any routes that split from the road. Well, the rest except for Hrothmund, who had spent many years with his brother. Hrothmud latched onto the overhead handle with speed born of both instinct and fear.

Unferth moved his face closer to the window. "I don't see any-"

Hrethric pulled straight across the other lane and into the black, tangled forest. Unferth's face smacked directly into the glass. There was no screaming, because there were only manly exclamations, and there was no vomiting, because there was only adrenaline and tree branches against the windshield. But there _was_ a great deal of swearing.

"Hrothgar," Hrethric said like nothing out of the ordinary was happening. For him, nothing was. "How much farther does the map say it is?"

"Uh." Hrothgar gathered himself and fumbled the phone back up off the floor, punching at the sides until he found the button and it came on again. "Give it…maybe ease up on the gas a little, Hrethric… _hang a left_!"

Hrethric, for lack of a better term, hung a left.

" _Stop_!"

Hrethric, for lack of a better term, stopped. Everyone else slowly recovered from whiplash.

"We're here," Hrethric said.

They were. A large, stately house rose up in small lights across a long, dark lake, which was the unmistakable color of positively freezing water. Everyone clambered out, some more steadily than others, and scrutinized their target. They were at the back of the house. Google satellite images said that there was a deck at the edge of the lake with a sliding glass door.

"Let me get ready," Beowulf said, reaching back into the car for another jacket.

Seeing the lake, and thinking back on what he'd heard earlier, Unferth felt the need to speak up. "Beowulf!"

Beowulf turned back over his shoulder noncommittally. "Yeah, what's up?"

Unferth glanced to his fellows for support, not entirely sure he wasn't about to ask a stupid question. " _Blindingly_ stupid," his brother liked to say, shaking his head. "That must be the only reason you get any." But Unferth had to ask. The lake was _huge_.

"Don't you need to, well, breathe?"

Beowulf gave the deep, slow blink of the truly unaware.

"No," he said.

 _Blindingly stupid_ , Unferth heard his brother's voice echo in his head. Unferth was used to hearing to echoes in his head, but, strangely, he didn't think this one was talking about him.

Meanwhile, Beowulf was pulling parachute pants over his jeans. "Just like the parka," he explained. "More bulk will keep me warm when I swim."

"Someone stop him," Unferth said half-heartedly, but no one did. They couldn't be blamed-Beowulf was a blind flailer. And, more than that, they _believed_ in him. Stupidly, but they did.

Unferth sighed, knowing defeat when it was facing him.

"Hey, listen," he said to Beowulf. "I'm sorry for doubting you, man, it's nothing personal. I just want you to take my flashlight with you. So that you can, I don't know, use it, I guess. It saved my father's life in a similar situation, so you should have it instead of me."

Unferth held up his keychain with a small waterproof flashlight attached to it, and Beowulf regarded it with great solemnity as it dangled in front of his face. "That's gay," he said, and then jumped into the lake. Wiglaf glared at Unferth.

Since Beowulf, indeed, did not need to breathe, and had a natural talent for not being limited by laws of physics (or knowing what they were), he surfaced on the opposite shore with the grace of a walrus. He levered himself up to the deck, dripping and misshapen like a sea monster. He wrung out his parachute pants and then punched straight through the glass door.

Right away, a security alarm started screaming. Beowulf stepped calmly into the house, and dripped, and waited.

Grendel's mother came rushing down the stairs in her nightgown, wild-eyed and frazzle-haired.

"Hi, Mrs. Grendel's mom, I'm Beowulf-"

Mrs. Grendel's mom was not in the mood to listen. She was in the mood to _fight_. Snatching up a decorative fruit bowl from the coffee table, she brought the rim whistling at his face like the edge of a guillotine. Beowulf, acting on pure self-preservation, seized up a tall antique lamp in the shape of a bluebell to knock it away. The bowl shattered into a family portrait, and the ancient lamp disintegrated in his hands after just the one swing.

"Dammit," he said to the antique dust on his hands, mindless of the way the lady stopped dead in her slippers. Her eyes popped huge out of her face.

"My priceless lamp," she gasped, and then she died where she stood.

Well, actually, she _fainted_ where she stood. But then she tottered to the side, cracked her head on the polished corner of the coffee table, and died.

If nothing else, the lawsuit was over.

Two weeks later found an abandoned car outside the woods on the private property of an Old English teacher, and two young men passing under the deceptively pleasant tinkling bells of a tiny back-alley store that smelled of old meat. Or maybe _fresh_ meat, if it was diseased.

"Don't worry," Wiglaf said, while Beowulf admired the small shifting shinies over his head. "This guy is supposed to be the best at what he does. He'll get you an ID that'll get you clean away into Kazakhstan."

"Cool," said Beowulf. He had discovered in recent days that answering Wiglaf that way was the easiest.

On cue, a small man in Renaissance Fair chic emerged from behind the counter, upon which were lined oddities including a Buddha in Hawaiian shorts and a pile of rubber bands. There was a reptilian quality to the man that was impossible to place.

"I have what you need," the man said.

"Cool," said Beowulf again. If it worked on Wiglaf, why not this man? "What's the price?"

"A curse until the end of your days," replied the man candidly.

"Cool," said Beowulf for a third time, and took the grungy manila envelope the man slid across the counter to him without noticing at all his nonplussed expression.

"We'll light a crazy bonfire for you," Wiglaf promised Beowulf. " _Crazy_."

"Thanks," said Beowulf, and then, because he could not remember Wiglaf's name at all, "Ecgtheow forever."

"Yeah, man," said Wiglaf, going in for the masculine hand-clasp. "Brothers forever."

"Epic," said Beowulf, returning the clasp. And that was really about the size of it.

But as he sauntered out to face the world with a new face, he stopped and turned back to Wiglaf. The bells threatened to catch on the peak of his gelled hair.

"You know," he said with a startling hint of real emotion. "Once I'm gone, I want 'em to say-I want everybody to say I was, you know, the most gracious, and the most fair-minded and stuff. And I want 'em to say that I was the kindest to the peeps, and the keenest to win fame."

Wiglaf looked into his eyes and saw the sincerity there.

"The _hell_ , man," he said, and Beowulf shrugged and left and then that was really about the end of it.

* * *

 **Sometimes, when life gets you down, you just have to bastardize some ancient epic literature. Beware of typos, there are probably more than a few. Applause to anyone who caught the translation jokes.**

 **Cheers!**


End file.
